e deuce! we'll see if those Courtevilles and
Magalhens and Savaron de Savarus will refuse to come and dine with a
Pierquin-Claes-Molina-Nourho. I shall be mayor of Douai; I'll obtain the
cross, and get to be deputy--in short, everything. Ha, ha! Pierquin, my
boy, now keep yourself in hand; no more nonsense, because--yes, on my
word of honor--Felicie--Mademoiselle Felicie Van Claes--loves you!"

When the lovers were left alone Emmanuel held out his hand to
Marguerite, who did not refuse to put her right hand into it. They rose
with one impulse and moved towards their bench in the garden; but as
they reached the middle of the parlor, the lover could not resist his
joy, and, in a voice that trembled with emotion, he said,--

"I have three hundred thousand francs of yours."

"What!" she cried, "did my poor mother entrust them to you? No? then
where did you get them?"

"Oh, my Marguerite! all that is mine is yours. Was it not you who first
said the word 'ourselves'?"

"Dear Emmanuel!" she exclaimed, pressing the hand which still held hers;
and then, instead of going into the garden, she threw herself into a low
chair.

"It is for me to thank you," he said, with the voice of love, "since you
accept all."

"Oh, my dear beloved one," she cried, "this moment effaces many a grief
and brings the happy future nearer. Yes, I accept your fortune," she
continued, with the smile of an angel upon her lips, "I know the way to
make it mine."

She looked up at the picture of Van Claes as if calling him to witness.
The young man's eyes followed those of Marguerite, and he did not notice
that she took a ring from her finger until he heard the words:--

"From the depths of our greatest misery one comfort rises. My father's
indifference leaves me the free disposal of myself," she said, holding
out the ring. "Take it, Emmanuel. My mother valued you--she would have
chosen you."

The young man turned pale with emotion and fell on his knees beside her,
offering in return a ring which he always wore.

"This is my mother's wedding-ring," he said, kissing it. "My Marguerite,
am I to have no other pledge than this?"

She stooped a little till her forehead met his lips.

"Alas, dear love," she said, greatly agitated, "are we not doing wrong?
We have so long to wait!"

"My uncle used to say that adoration was the daily bread of
patience,--he spoke of Christians who love God. That is how I love you;
I have long mingled my love for you w